In The Afterlight (The Darkest Minds #3)(135)

Our brains translated sounds differently than a normal human mind; if the adults in the room heard the sound, it was nothing more than a buzzing fly around their ears. There was a spectrum of pitches that affected us, each of them specially tuned to sing for each different color. I’d learned about it when Cate and the League had managed to embed the regular White Noise with tones meant for Oranges and Reds, hoping to root out those of us who might have been in hiding or posing as a different color. That sound, the thread of mind-blistering crashes and bangs, had drilled through me and left me unconscious.

I strained against the Velcro cuffs, letting my eyes bulge, letting my whole body shake and thrash, as if the sound were a knife driving repeatedly into my chest. The sounds that escaped the muzzle were low, animal moans.

O’Ryan held up a hand and the faint noise switched off. He stepped up closer to the bed, peering down at my face. I had to force my hatred into fear.

“Successful reaction,” Dr. Freemont said. “Should I—”

The camp controller’s face was impassive, though I saw his lip curl up in assessment. I got a good look at him now; his wide shoulders filled out his shirt and, standing over me, he seemed ten feet tall. There was something in his stance that reminded me of a knife’s blade. He stood rigidly proud, his eyes cutting through every layer of control I’d built up, and I realized, a second too late, that this wasn’t a normal camp controller. This was the camp controller.

And I was looking him in the eye.

I tore my gaze away, but the damage had been done. I’d shown too much will. He’d read it as a challenge. “Set it to Orange.”

There was a lot I could withstand now, but I knew a hit of that White Noise would be like stepping in front of a speeding train. O’Ryan stood over me, staring at my face. He thought he was in control here, didn’t he? That if he looked at me close enough, he’d detect me using my abilities—that if the muzzle kept me from speaking, I couldn’t issue a command.

I didn’t need to look at him. I didn’t need to speak to him. And, in the end, I only needed to affect one person.

Dr. Freemont’s mind was a swamp of faceless children and computer screens. I planted the images there in the middle of them all, a neat, tidy package based on what I could remember from my first processing through the camp, and pulled back immediately.

I pushed the image of him fiddling with the dial, pulling it back toward his chest as he turned the dial back to its original setting. He was angled away from the PSFs at the door. O’Ryan was looking at me, so smug and sure of himself, that he allowed himself a knowing smirk. I lowered my lashes, glad for the first time that there was a muzzle to keep me from returning it.

“Begin,” he said.

It was easy enough to float the command to Dr. Freemont to push the button—I’d seen him do it moments ago, and could choreograph the small movement the exact way the doctor had done before. The White Noise trickled out again, running along my skin like an electric current. I let my eyes flick around, but it was harder to mime fear now. A swell of cool, careful control settled my mind.

O’Ryan looked back over his shoulder. “Turn it on.”

It is on, I thought.

“It is on,” Dr. Freemont said. I froze at the dull tone of his voice, risking a glance toward O’Ryan for his reaction.

The camp controller’s lip pulled back. “I’m ordering one of the testing machines back from New York.”

New York? Had they moved all of the big testing machines and scanners out already?

I forced the words into the doctor’s mouth. That could take weeks.

“That could take weeks,” Dr. Freemont said.

This is foolproof.

“This is foolproof.”

O’Ryan’s gaze was searing as it moved between the old man and me. I let my control expand, snaring the camp controller’s mind. I skimmed the surface memories, the damp mornings, fog, streams of children in uniforms, but it took a forceful shove to break past them, to plant the idea. This girl is Green. She was mistakenly identified as Orange.

I pulled back, slipping out of both of their minds, shifting my gaze to the tiled floor.

“Fine. The Orange classification was an error.” O’Ryan turned to one of the PSFs. “Get one of the Green uniforms and shoes out of the boxes. Her PID is three-two-eight-five.”

“What size, sir?”

“Does it matter?” O’Ryan barked. “Go.”

The doctor blinked. “Will she not stay here, then? I imagine it might be...disruptive to the other children if they saw her.”

“One night is enough.” He turned to look at me as he added, “I want them all to understand, no matter how far they run, they’ll always be found. They’ll always be brought back.”

A whole night. Jesus—the drugs they’d given me had knocked me sideways hard enough to lose a full day. The military would have flown us back east to West Virginia—they wouldn’t have risked ground transportation. Meaning...that would make it...the twenty-fifth of February. Shit. Three days to figure this out.

The doctor didn’t uncuff me or remove the muzzle until the PSF was back, dropping the thin, cotton uniform and laceless white slip-on sneakers on the examination table.

“Change,” O’Ryan ordered, tossing them onto my chest. “Move.”